Le Chevalier

by Mary Jean Adams

  “I hear it did,” the marquis responded, before draining his wine glass. He cleared his throat as though it burned and set the empty crystal goblet on a table against the wall. “Although, unlike dead kings, secret societies do have a way of resurrecting themselves.”

  “Yes, they do,” Mont Trignon responded.

  A trio of officers, sounding as though they had had more than their share of spirits, drew his attention back to the other side of the dance floor. Their boorish laughter rose above the eager strains of the small orchestra. As they passed the dark-haired woman, she shrank once more into the shadows.

  Mont Trignon cocked an eyebrow. Why would she do that? The officers had not paid any special attention to her. As far as Mont Trignon could tell, she had gone unnoticed by everybody in the room except him. She had become as much a fixture as the Queen Anne chair next to her.

  So well did the pale peach of her gown blend into the background, had she chosen a peony corsage to match the puffy flowers gracing the wallpaper, she might have appeared to be a disembodied head.

  With the marquis distracted by a room full of women dressed to entice, Mont Trignon had nothing better to do. Why not try to uncover her mysteries? It would be an amusing ten minutes.

  Did she know the color of the wallpaper ahead of time? The insipid peach shade did nothing to highlight any natural beauty she might possess. Mont Trignon considered himself an expert where women were concerned, having spent much of his life surrounded by them. In his experience, all women, in the right light, were uniquely beautiful. He judged it a crime to hide a woman’s natural assets beneath a dowdy gown that made her look like part of the décor.

  He took another sip of his wine, ignoring the vinegary taste of the domestic blend. Something about the way she watched everyone but never made eye contact intrigued him. He could almost believe she wanted to observe without being seen. Had the unfortunate dress color been by design and not by accident?

  Always at his most relaxed when he had a puzzle to solve, a familiar satisfaction settled over him. Perhaps ten minutes would not be sufficient time to devote to his study. Like a painting by a great artist, she appeared simple at first, but the more one reflected, the more complex she became.

  Except she was not one of the twisted puzzles he had been so fond of as a child, nor a painting by a great artist. A smile curled his lip. A flesh and blood woman, she presented the most interesting puzzle of all.

  “I am quite certain I can find something to occupy me while I am here,” he muttered.

  “Not dressed as you are, mon ami.” The marquis clapped him on the shoulder, telling anyone who might be watching the six-foot tall woman in watered blue silk was not who or what she appeared to be.

  As the marquis headed toward a more challenging conquest, Mont Trignon glanced around, his heart pounding. At his height, his head rose above most of the men around him. From the moment he arrived, they had been giving him a wide berth, perhaps for fear of finding themselves forced to dance with a woman a head taller and broader of shoulder than themselves. Their disinterest worked to his advantage. No one noticed the marquis’s indiscretion.

  His heart still raced as he searched again for the woman in the dull peach gown. She had not moved from her post against the wall, and he took a sip of wine to hide his amusement. He watched her dark eyes survey the room, yet never once did they settle on the woman towering not more than twenty feet from her. Whatever she searched for, dressed as Marie, he did not possess it.

  The officers who had passed the curious woman earlier made their way back to a small cluster of young women who were eyeing them with inviting glances.

  Mont Trignon’s latest puzzle took a small step to the right, bringing her to the outer edge of their circle. She made no effort to join them, but the corners of her mouth curled in such a way that he could only surmise she eavesdropped on their conversation.

  Could she be a spy? Perhaps even now, she hoped the officers, drunk as they were, would blurt out Washington’s secrets, so she could carry them back to King George.

  He hid an amused laugh behind his fan. Innocent-looking creatures like her were not the typical recruits. More than likely, her curiosity had simply gotten the best of her. Or perhaps, as they did for him, formal assemblies brought on an overwhelming sense of ennui that could only be diminished by intrigue.

  She edged even closer to the men, but they did not notice her. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Even if she were not a trained spy, perhaps he should try to recruit her. A plain woman might outdo them all when it came to gathering intelligence.

  One of the officers laughed at something, taking a step back, so the heel of his boot landed on her toe. Mont Trignon winced. The man had to have a hundred pounds on her.

  In his inebriation, the officer must not have felt the soft, slippered foot beneath his hard heel, so he remained where he stood, forcing her to yank her foot from beneath him. Mont Trignon could not hear the ripping of the fabric over the strident tones of the violins, but he could see the gap form between flounce and skirt.

  She scowled at the man’s back but said nothing. He must have sensed her eyes on the back of his neck, however, because at that moment he spun around. His wine glass led the way and before he noticed her, he knocked it against her shoulder and spilled a burgundy stream down the front of her dress.

  Mont Trignon recovered himself just in time to avoid a most unfeminine belly laugh. Now the poor woman matched the wallpaper perfectly.

  Chapter Two

  “Stupid man!” Alex Turner muttered, as she fled the Lancasters’ ballroom.

  She ducked down a candlelit hallway looking for an unoccupied room that afforded her the opportunity to collect herself and figure out what to do next.

  She knew she shouldn’t have come tonight. It was nothing more than a fool’s errand and enough to make her want to pound her fist in frustration against the walnut-paneled walls as she passed.

  A girl in a dark linen dress and a kitchen maid’s smock emerged from a side door, struggling with a wooden crate filled with clanking green bottles. Alex flashed a smile of apology and stepped out of the way so she could scoot by, but the girl cast her nary a glance.

  The maid wouldn’t acknowledge her, she reminded herself. Tonight, Alex was a privileged guest even though, by this time tomorrow, she would be the one struggling with a case of liquor as she restocked the bar. She cast a wistful gaze at the maid’s retreating back. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

  The fabric of her chemise clawed at her chest as the wine seeped through the bodice of her ruined dress. Holding her skirts high to keep from tripping on the torn flounce as it flopped about her feet, she tried several door handles in vain. Even if she could mend the tear, she couldn’t very well return to the ballroom with a crimson streak across her chest. It would be too conspicuous, and being the center of attention was the last thing she wanted.

  At the far end of the long hallway, she tried a knob, breathing a sigh of relief when it turned and the door opened onto an unoccupied library. She entered the dim, cozy room, stopping just inside to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Rays of filtered moonlight streamed through the mullioned windows flanking the hearth, providing just enough illumination for her to make out an upholstered chair angled before the empty fireplace.

  The chenille cushions let out of puff as Alex plopped down, leaned an elbow on the arm, and rested her forehead in her hand. With her forefingers and thumb, she massaged her aching temples.

  “Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle,” a husky voice said, from the doorway.

  Alex twisted about, her heart pounding. She hadn’t thought anyone had followed her retreat from the ballroom. Had the kitchen maid noticed her plight and sent for help?

  Surprise mixed with confusion rendered Alex mute. Her first impression had been of a man’s voice. However, silhouetted against the light spilling in from the hallway stood the largest woman she had ever seen. Or, at least, the tallest. Her outline
showed a waist disproportionately small for her height and narrow hips despite the panniers that spread her fashionable gown to display the petticoat beneath.

  “I am so sorry for interrupting your solitude, but I thought perhaps you might need some assistance.” The newcomer stepped out of the doorway and into the shadows where Alex could see her better now that her eyes had adjusted to the dim light. “You are well?”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you very much for your concern.” Embarrassed to be caught lounging, Alex rose to her feet, smoothing her hands over her rumpled peach skirts. “I’m sorry for my rudeness, but you caught me by surprise. I didn’t realize anyone had seen me take refuge in here.”

  “There is no need for apologies.” The woman shut the door behind her, blocking out the orchestra and easing the pounding in Alex’s head. “I saw what that dreadful man did. I thought I might come to offer, er, how do you say it in America? To offer a hand?”

  Alex focused on the words, thick with an unfamiliar accent.

  The woman cocked her head when Alex didn’t respond. “Do you have a needle?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” Alex answered, recovering herself. She wasn’t the kind to carry around needle and thread. Besides, a needle would do nothing for the burgundy streak down the front of her dress.

  “I might have something…” The stranger’s words were like liquid silk as she reached into the reticule she carried about her wrist. After a moment of searching, she produced a small sewing kit. Threading the needle on her first attempt, despite having only the pale moonlight to see with, she handed it to Alex with a gentle smile. “Here you are, chérie.”

  “Thank you,” Alex said, taking the needle and thread from her.

  With a poof of the cushions, Alex plopped back into her chair, scooped up the hem of her dress and began stitching. In the face of such kind concern, she didn’t have the heart to point out the futility of mending the dress when she could do little about the stain.

  Alex frowned as she weaved the thread through the delicate fabric. Even if she hadn’t wanted to come, she hated to waste the money spent on the gown. She hadn’t splurged on silk or satin, but she hoped there might be one or two occasions where muslin would come in handy-even if it were the color of overripe peaches.

  She shoved the needle into the fabric and yanked it out the other side.

  She had only bought the dress so she had something presentable for the Lancasters’ assembly. Not the type of affair she normally enjoyed, she had hoped it would present an opportunity to discover how the war effort progressed.

  She shoved the needle through the fabric again.

  Stories of British amassing on the outskirts of town filled every corner of her tavern, yet the farmers and craftsmen who were the bulk of her clientele were prone to embellishment. When Angelina told her the Lancasters’ assembly would include actual army officers, she agreed to attend, hoping to learn more.

  Now, she would be returning home empty-handed.

  She shoved the needle through the fabric again, pricking her finger and staining the hem with tiny crimson dots. Alex stuck her finger in her mouth, wrinkling her nose at the salty taste.

  If only Reid would bring her into his inner circle, she wouldn’t have to go to these ridiculous lengths.

  “Excusez-moi, chérie, but what are you doing?”

  With a popping sound, Alex plucked her finger from her mouth and looked up. “Sewing?”

  “I am sorry, chérie, I am French and my English is not so good, but I think what you are doing is called stabbing.”

  Alex laughed at the polite way her rescuer took her to task, in her husky accent, for abusing the fabric of her gown. She was right though. Alex had never been any good at sewing—no tolerance for it at the best of times. And right now, her anger at her brother, the wine drying on her chest, and her throbbing toes had tried her patience to its limit.

  If it weren’t for fear of tripping on her hem and falling flat on her face in front of Philadelphia’s most illustrious citizens, she would have preferred to go home as she was.

  “Allow me?”

  Without hesitation, Alex relinquished needle and thread into her rescuer’s satin-covered palm.

  The elegant Frenchwoman knelt before her chair and flashed a white-toothed smile before bending her head to her task.

  Alex watched as she made small even stitches. Her hands were large, as one might expect from someone of her size, but her long, tapered fingers moved with unexpected grace. The deftness with which she reattached the torn flounce could almost be described as beautiful. Alex watched in astonishment as her dress became whole again.

  “You will excuse me for saying so, but you did not seem to be enjoying yourself tonight.” She looked up, her eyes meeting Alex’s.

  In the darkness, Alex couldn’t tell what color they were. Green? Or perhaps a darker shade. But even in the dim moonlight the small crinkles at the corner of her eyes said this stranger laughed often.

  “Actually, I was.” Alex smiled. “Until that oaf stepped on my foot.”

  “But you did not dance with any of the young gentlemen in the room. A pretty girl like you should be dancing every dance.”

  “I don’t really like to dance,” Alex replied. In truth, she had never found the time to learn, but she deemed the little white lie acceptable for a stranger.

  “Perhaps it was the company? The officers…they can be so…” She let her voice trail off, but Alex sensed she had an adjective or two in mind.

  She laughed. “Yes, they can be.”

  The woman smiled, warming Alex as an understanding passed between them. Something about this foreigner made Alex want to trust her.

  Trust. Alex’s uneven grin showed the cynicism she had developed since the war and her parents’ deaths. Would there ever again be somebody in her life she could put that much faith in?

  The moonlight bathed the woman’s face as she continued stitching. The soft glow made it difficult for Alex to guess her age, but her motherly attitude suggested a good deal older than herself. And despite the woman’s trim figure, even a feathery dusting of rice powder couldn’t conceal her uneven complexion and the touch of weathering to her skin.

  “Thank you very much for your kindness, Madame…?”

  “Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Marie Noielles,” she replied.

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle Noielles.”

  “Non, non, chérie.” She gave a dismissive wave before returning to her task. “We are friends now. You must call me Marie.”

  “And I am Alex.”

  “Alex?” Marie’s raised eyebrows suggested the man’s name came as a bit of a shock.

  “Well, actually, it’s Alexandra. Alexandra Turner.”

  “Oh, that is much better.” Marie smiled.

  Alex laughed. She had never thought so. Her father had been a little too fond of Greek history and had given her the name. At least she had fared better than her brother Reid. Alex’s mother had had to convince her husband not to name the poor boy “Read” after his father’s fondness for the written word.

  Marie’s shawl slipped as she completed the last of the stitches, and Alex caught a glimpse of silk straining against a well-rounded upper arm. Perhaps she wasn’t as trim as Alex had first supposed.

  Still, Marie’s beauty could not be denied. Her fair hair had been cropped in a shoulder-length style uncommon except among desperately poor women who had no recourse but to sell their locks to the wigmaker. But Marie’s elegant gown showed she was anything but destitute. And the short style suited her. The curls arranged about her face sparkled like a river of molten gold and silver in the moonlight, making her look younger than she probably was.

  Alex sighed at the unfairness of life. Men were no doubt the same in France as they were in America. They valued looks above character, and few of them were secure enough in their manhood to court a woman who could look them straight in the eye.

  “There.” Marie snipped the thread between her even wh
ite teeth then stretched the hem of Alex’s skirt between her hands to inspect her work. “I think we have solved your first problem. Now, let us take a look at the second.”

  Alex gasped as Marie grasped her foot with a strong hand.

  “Can you wiggle your toes?”

  Alex winced as she did but, despite the pain, her toes still worked.

  “Bon. Nothing appears broken.”

  She massaged Alex’s throbbing foot with her long fingers, and Alex leaned back against the soft cushions, giving herself over to the ministrations of her new friend. Marie seemed to know just which spots to rub to ease the pain. Alex closed her eyes and let the tension melt from her shoulders.

  “So if you do not like the American officers, perhaps you prefer the English?” Marie asked.

  Alex’s eyes flew open as alarm bells sounded in her head. She pushed herself upright and tried to pull her foot out of Marie’s grip, but Marie held fast.

  Surely, Mademoiselle Noielles could not be ignorant of the war between the two countries. Why would she ask such a thing?

  Marie glanced up for a moment with nothing more than a gentle curiosity in her soft smile.

  Alex leaned back against the cushions once more.

  “The English officers aren’t much different than the Americans, I suppose,” Alex replied, as Marie continued her kneading.

  Alex held her breath, waiting to see how Marie would respond. Instincts told her she could trust this woman, yet it wouldn’t do to share her loyalties with a stranger. She hoped the answer she gave took the focus off any preference she might have for American or English men.

  “Perhaps.” Marie paused in her kneading to look up and regard Alex with pursed lips as though she were pondering a great mystery. “Perhaps it is not whether the man is English or American…or even French for that matter. Perhaps it is that you have not yet met the right man.”

  Alex should have been taken aback by such a personal opinion, but the sudden twinkle in Marie’s eyes told her she meant no harm.

  “Is that the way it is for you?” Alex asked before she could stop herself.